


By the Pools of Makedonia

by Madoking



Series: Tradition be Damned [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Fluffy, I will keep this ship afloat myself, M/M, One shot sequel to Tradition be Damned, Very fluffy, smut at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22948048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madoking/pseuds/Madoking
Summary: Alexios has been living with his sister in Thrake after they escaped Sparta, but he finds time to meet with Lysander, Sparta's strategos, by the pools of Makedonia.Sequel one-shot from Tradition be Damned (first in the series).
Relationships: Alexios (Assassin's Creed)/Lysander (d. 395 BC)
Series: Tradition be Damned [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1648975
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	By the Pools of Makedonia

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tradition be damned](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22596367) by [Madoking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madoking/pseuds/Madoking). 



> Please read Tradition be Damned first.
> 
> Thanks!

I like running. 

The feeling of freedom as my feet fall to the earth is almost jarring after so long required to walk. Air whips my hair from me, grown too long and needing to be cut, the beads battering my bare shoulders. 

I don’t armour when I run. There’s little threat here, and the air wicks the sweat away so I feel like I’m running through a fresh waterfall. It’s gotten to the point where miles and miles have to elapse before I sweat at all. Now though, with the southern waters on the horizon and the north wind at my back, I feel the first tickling of salted water enter my eyes and begin to sting. Two days of running, and not a damn thing that can stop me. 

The light is almost blinding as Helios winks on the sea. Twinkling, giving the impression of movement even this far from the water. I let my lips curl, the sight my marker for the time to turn west, towards Amphipolis. I usually go this way, the path marked by parallel wanderings that only a madman would follow. South from Thrake, towards the Chalkidike, picking up odd jobs and odd drachmae as I go. No one here has heard of me, no one here knows to even look. 

As I said, freedom. 

So different to what the oracle said of my fate. I wasn’t presented as a child, my mother being too sick to make the journey to Delphi, but when my uncle set sights on me I fell into line, travelling with his party of Krypteia to the girl who was the same age as me, high on hallucinogens and spouting nonsense. 

She didn’t call me the ruiner. She didn’t call me a disgrace. 

Instead she named me the Protector. She said nothing else, just that my rights and mission was to protect. That was enough for Pleistarkhos: he named me heir there and then. No consultation, even though at twelve years old I had opinions on the matter. My father’s opinions were more strident, silenced by his thrilled wife. 

My heart twinges as I think of him, and I stumble a little on the descent down the mountain. Was he still alive? Or did we cause him an early grave?

I see him in Alexander sometimes. The chin, the grimace. The surety in which he listens, like he has your full attention when in fact he is far away. Pater used to do that. He used to do that when it mattered, too. 

“Nikanor,” I say, smiling broadly. “Nice to see you, friend.”

The man balks but only a little, my lack of footfalls surprising him. 

“Eagle Bearer,” he splutters, ignoring my un-ironic grin. “What… what can I help you with?”

“Oh, but it is I who can help you, my friend. I’m after a specific type of arrow shaft: cedar wood, unoiled preferably.”

“Oh, misthios, is that all,” he says with relief. 

I understand his reservations. He owes lots of people in these parts lots of money. 

“Do you have it?”

He eyes me suspiciously. I curl my mouth up at the sides, the picture of ease as my insides melt. In my eagerness for the arrow, I’d dropped my Rs, letting them roll in the Spartan way. This was Makedonia: many here have not yet forgiven Brasidas of Sparta’s kinsmen for returning Amphipolis to Athens in the peace. It was a funny thing: Sparta thought they owned the northern cities simply because their colours had flown on the walls. But the army that took Amphipolis was not Spartan, and from what Lysander has told me, they never would be. 

Not only was me having a Spartan accent troublesome for the politics, but I had to keep my sister and her family safe. 

I distract the balding man with the glint of silver as I retrieve coins from my pouch. His eyes shift from assessing my face to stare at the wealth pocketed. 

“Cedar wood, Nikanor?” I remind him. 

“Yes, yes,” he says, hand almost dismissing me. “How many?”

“Just one.”

“Just one? Is it a symbol then?”

I shrug. “Something like that.”

He nods and turns to enter his house. He rummages for a while, so I sit on the low wall that borders his garden and survey the hills. They’re stunning, especially with the last breath of spring. Wildflowers line the valleys as rocks just from the cliffs, an almost jarring combination that amounts simply to a dramatic overlap. Inconsequential, in the end. But pretty. Maybe I should pick some flowers, too. 

“Are you sure that you only want one?” Nikanor asks, appearing behind me. 

“Do you have a deal going for more?” I ask, a little impatiently. 

“I can do a better price for the more you buy. It’s just strange, that’s all.”

“I don’t use a bow,” I mutter, taking the arrow from him. I eye the length of it, finding it beautifully shaped. No curve, except the raw feeling of the circled wood in my hands. Textured, but satined. Yes, this was perfect. 

“Then why do you want an arrow?” he asks, baffled. 

I glance at his face and find no suspicion, just naked confusion. 

“Because Eros shoots arrows,” I reply. 

“Yes, from a bow. I have a few if you’d like to take a look.”

I shake my head. “There’s no point; he doesn’t know how to use a bow either.” I straighten, taking a coin from my purse. “Thank you Nikanor, I’ll see you later.”

I walk away before he can ask me anymore questions. Buying a bow would be ridiculous. We aren’t taught them in Sparta: _a coward’s weapon,_ as my uncle used to say. Javelins were the closest we got to taking an enemy out from a distance. 

I place the arrow carefully in my rucksack, feeling a little bit ridiculous. I only thought of it this morning, as I ran through the mountains. The Cedars were tall, sure, almost comforting in their regularity. Strong; sheltering; the same colour as his skin. 

And besides, if I felt silly, I didn’t have to give it to him. It’s not like it was a grand, expensive gesture. I wasn’t dragging a cow to him, it braying behind me announcing its presence. It was much harder to hide a cow if I chickened out. 

A chicken would be easier to hide, though. 

I walk now, having replaced my armour, not knowing how long I’d have to wait at the pools. It was the worst part, really. My gut told me just how nervous I am.

I distract myself with thoughts of Alexander. The boy is strong, healthy. Loved. He’d grown out his yellow hair, the curls flicking towards his dark brown eyes. Snappy, always speaking back and asking questions. He’d begged and begged and begged to come with me on this trip, but had to be assured that I would be back, and that I’d take him on the next one. Seven year olds are annoyingly insistent. 

His birthday was recently, as the first warm wind blew over the mountains, chasing the snow away. In Sparta, he would be entering the agoge. He would be subjected to his first test soon: the trio of boys who enter the wolf’s lair. It’s always the same, only about a quarter of the boys who are born escape the agoge with their lives. I remember the boys I undertook the test with. We’d all survived, but one received a fatal gash later when we were about eleven years old. It festered, sending him to Hades in the warm arms of fever. I thought about him a lot: Pyrrhos was his name. His father was close to mine. It happened just before I was named heir, and I think the loss of that boy informed my own father’s resistance to my uncle. He felt like he was losing a son, too. 

I couldn’t imagine letting Alexander to the agoge. He is strong, of course, but not infallible. A stray spear is all it would need to take him from us. Unthinkable. 

But then, of course: he’d have an heir’s training. He would never enter the agoge at all. I spent the first wave with my peers, but then moved to private tutelage once it became clear that my aunt was barren. 

I let a frown move over my mouth at the thought. My uncle was young: younger than my grandfather had been when he was born. He could put aside his wife and have children that would further the Agiad. Our decision to escape was partly because the line would end. Kassandra had blindspots; she didn’t sleep and eat in the barracks with the men with their crude talk and joking mouths. She trusted the lie that it was our aunt that was barren, but Pleistarkhos took other women and nothing amounted. Many of those women went on to have families of their own. 

One of them was Lysander’s wife, Melitta. 

I shake my head, almost viciously, banishing the thought. 

The pools unfold beneath me, the cliffs diving down into their depths and the green of the ferns dotting the edge. It’s peaceful; removed. It seems unworthy of the bile that’s suddenly accumulated in my throat, begging for release. 

I shove it down, closing the box I keep the jealousy in and shutting it tight. There’s no time, and I don’t want to waste my moments here thinking of it. The beauty of this place doesn’t deserve it. 

Breathing thoroughly, I begin the descent. Usually I jumped, spreading my arms out and diving down into the depths, but I needed to keep my rucksack dry. So, instead, I scale down the walls, finding hand and foot holds on the slippery surface, almost falling only once. 

My feet find the ground gingerly. Much of what looks like ground here is actually moss covering water, and I had no intention of being soaked today. I let my rucksack to the rock edge, securing it and making sure that my scrolls were carefully placed so they wouldn’t suffer splashes. 

Then I sat, and I waited for Lysander. 

\--------

“This is embarrassing for you, Eagle Bearer,” the voice says, so close to my ear that I feel the tickle of its breath. “Fucking snoozing, so exposed.”

My mouth curls as I open my drooping eyes, seeing the bright blue of his directly above me. They’re fresh, so open and clear that I almost want to climb in. They’re like the sky: freeing. Then I see the edges wrinkle a little in laughter, and I remember the words that woke me. 

“Can a man not sleep without being harrassed?” I whisper gently, mouth open. 

He glances down at my lips, licking his own slightly. 

“No, I suppose he can’t.”

“I missed you,” I murmur, so captured.

“I missed you too, Alexios.”

He leans back then, allowing me space to rise. I rub my face, forcing the blood to flow back through it. Then I look at the actual sky and see it darkened. I huff in disappointment: he’ll be missed if he’s here too long. 

“How goes your family?” he asks, sitting back. He’s dressed simply: a chiton with a black leather belt. The material is fine though: wool for the northern cold. There is detail along the hem of weaving midnight blue blades. I reach for the embroidery, stilling my hand only slightly before extending it fully and touching the threads. Fine, beautifully sewn. Lovingly, almost. I drop it almost as quickly. 

“They’re well. Brasidas has started building a second wing to the house. It only has two bedrooms, too few for their growing brood. Kassandra’s on her fourth, now. Alexander will be taller than me, I think, and Archelaos and Penelope race so fast that I can barely keep up with them now.”

I let myself smile at the memories. They were growing fast; too fast. Archelaos was suitably defiant for a five year old, and Penelope followed her mother in quiet, striking, reflection. Who knows what the next one will be.

I know the convention. I know that when someone asks a question of you, you’re meant to return it and enquire the same. But I can’t. I’m… a coward, I guess. 

He senses my hesitation, stark after my gushing for my niece and nephews. 

“And you?” he asks, gloriously understanding.

I turn my eyes to his and see the honesty that made us argue so passionately. He refuses to hide anything from his face here, and I know it’s because he hides so much in Sparta. He’s forever the dutiful strategos, agitated slightly by peace though, I think. He isn’t built for it. He was sponsored before Korkyra and Korinth, but Athens had been bubbling for years prior to that. He was forged in war, and under my brother-in-law’s tutelage. 

“I’m well, Xander. Better now.”

It’s been a year since I’ve seen him. Small letters keep us between, but nothing overt or too personable. Nothing that could cause the other trouble if intercepted. Lysander has his messenger systems, just as I did. But the communication had been stunted. When I’d last seen him, I’d walked away angry and miserable. I’d been waiting for it, knowing it was coming, but I didn’t really anticipate it. It was my own fault, and still I caused him pain because of it. 

And yet, he’d still come to the pools of water surrounded by cliffs that we’d found before Amphipolis. Before he took news of my death home to Sparta. 

He nods at my response. That’s when I know that I don’t deserve him. Endlessly patient with me, his Heraclid brat. 

His, though, all the same. 

He stands, almost leaping up. “Come on, I want to freeze to death in this water before I have to return to camp.”

I grin, my melancholy buried in the same place as my jealousy, leaping after him. He shifts his chiton over his head, undoing his belt in a smooth movement. The black leather falls to the ground like a snake, like the promise of knowledge, until I watch it still: not a snake at all. Just the binds that hold his clothing to his body. My eyes trail upwards, pausing only a little at the back of his strong calves, then moving to his broad shoulders as they pull the wool over his head. Unadorned now, his skin rippling in the little sunlight we have left. He’s grown out, his waist thickening slightly when he was always narrow before. Age, I suppose. That’s what Kassandra said: that men bulk as they near thirty. I guess that was happening to Lysander, too. 

He walks away from me and towards the pools, and I try to lose my armour quickly in order to follow him. Fumbling, always fumbling. Useless fingers stretch and pinch at the leather, trying to get this damn chestplate off me. I groan in frustration, knowing that the sweat of the run has caused the ties to swell. 

“Hush, Agiad,” Lysander says, walking back towards me. I freeze, unwilling to break any peace we may have with either my pining words or my ineffable actions. I have to consciously prevent my body from leaning into his touch, just begging to have any warmth from him. He takes the ties from me and, with deft fingers - longer than I remember - he unties the leather and slips the metal over my head. When the darkness of inside the shirt clears, I’m but a foot from his face as his eyes trail my shoulders and down my stomach. I still have a chiton on, but feel it burn away under his gaze. 

_Gods_ , he’s beautiful. 

Then he takes my hand, gently pulling my arm towards him and taking the bracer from me. These were gifts from Brasidas when I’d outgrown mine: the gold of the Spartan army. The gold of a strategos, a symbol of power. And yet, even with these protections, he easily slips them off, disregarding them as soon as they fall to the earth. 

“Can you manage your sandals?” he whispers, breathing. 

It seems strange that I would notice his breathing now when I couldn’t breathe at all. 

“Yes,” I squeak, unbecoming.

He grins at the noise, a barb ready on his tongue. Very unmanly, very unSpartan, good thing I would never be King. 

Instead he just takes a breath, and walks away from me again. But this time, I don’t stare. 

The water is frigid, enough to make my breath escape. The pools are very deep, I’d not yet been able to reach the bottom and Lysander had refused to let me tie a rope around my waist to explore further. I’d told him that there might be treasure at the bottom, he’d told me that it wasn’t worth my death. One cold spot could send a cramp through my leg, drowning me, he’d said. I’d just replied that the whole pool was cold. 

That was before. When this was easier. When I knew that I loved him. 

It is more difficult now.

He’s swimming laps, because of course he is. He’d show off a mole if he thought it would impress. I suppose arrogance is required when you’re a dandelion in the footpaths of Sparta. Golden, a weed, but completely unforgettable. 

“You might cramp and drown,” I call out as I enter the pool. 

He doesn’t reply, but I can see the ripples of water where he disappeared between the reeds. I settle myself on one of the rock ledges, bringing my feet under me in order to wash my shoulders and face of sweat. I was grimy, gross. Running for two days straight, even with the spring winds, did not lend itself to flowery hair. 

I take another glance at the spot where I’d last seen Lysander. It was quiet now, no ripples. 

“Xander?” I call. It feels a bit funny out of my mouth. It’s Alexander’s nickname, too. 

No more ripples. My heart begins to beat a bit faster. 

“Lysander?” I call again, louder, only slightly panicked. 

We were taught to swim in the river from a young age. I only taught Lysander five years ago, when we made this our spot. He was a quick learner, but the memories of his spluttering mouth and deep breaths after he was overambitious and came too close to the edge of his skill threw my mind into tumult. 

“Lysander!” I yell, diving into the pool, ungracefully, swimming towards the reeds where I saw him disappear. My heartbeat is in my ears and I can’t hear anything but the splash of the water and my own blood. 

I reach the reeds and spread my arms through them, widening my search. Perhaps he was caught? Perhaps he was simply floating with his ears under the water and couldn't hear me? Perhaps-.

“LYSANDER!” I yelp, the sound filling the cave and echoing beyond. Every misthios within a mile radius would have heard me scream. And heard his name, too. 

I almost lose my breath completely to panic as my eyes turn to the depths of the pool.

Then a jarring bulk smashing into the right of me, pushing me over and throwing me into the green nothingness of the shallows. I swallow some of the mineral water, gagging as I surface and hear a manic sound. I swipe my arm around, eyes shut and trusting my instincts to land the blow, but the assailant is too fast for me, pinning my shoulder behind me. 

It’s laughter. The sound is laughter. 

I open my eyes and find him above me, his face lit with glee. 

I really do hit him this time, my open hand slapping the muscle of his arm. 

“Why would you do that!” I yell.

He just laughs harder. It rings like a bell.

“I thought you’d drowned!” I continue, getting angrier.

“Al, relax,” he laughs. “It was just a trick.”

“You could have died!”

“And yet,” he says, gesturing to his intact self. 

I can’t help it. I laugh too. The sound reaches Olympos, my relief and thanks that I didn’t lose him today, just when I gained him back. 

No. He wasn’t mine, anymore.

“Promise me that you won’t do that again.”

He laughs, but then sees my seriousness. “You’re always so bossy, Agiad.”

“Must be due to my humble beginnings.”

He smiles. “I promise that I won’t pretend to drown just to see if you’d wail trying to find me. I promise not to try and pry into your mind to find out whether you were still with me or whether you’d decided to withdraw and not care anymore. I promise not to test you again, Alexios.”

I don’t smile back. It’s all well and good for him to presume my love: I wasn’t the one who married. 

_It’s the law,_ he’d said, stroking my face.

 _Since when do you obey the law, Xander?_ I’d replied, leaning into his hand.

_Since I have to keep you safe, my love. And this will add a layer of safety for you._

I shake my head of the memory. It was useless to dwell. Part of me wanted to forget the conversation all together, another part was glad that he told me. 

“I’d probably drown myself if I lost you,” he whispers, expression muted. 

I don’t turn to him sharply as I might have done in the past. Expressions like that were easy before. Distance simply made me love him more. 

“It’s been a year since you’ve seen me, Xander. Much would have changed for you.”

He shakes his head, defeated, but I know it’s the truth. Spartan men must be married before thirty. They must produce children; produce a lineage of sons that would inherit Spartan pride. 

His wife might already be pregnant. 

I can’t ask.

“I don’t love her,” he whispers instead, water dripping down his nose. 

I only sigh, not wanting to have this conversation. I want to stay in my cocoon where it is only us, where the outside world doesn’t penetrate. Even Kass doesn’t know what happens here, only that I am here with him, and come back with drachmae from my work. She knows better than to pry, too. 

He gently sits, surrounded by reeds as I am. His hands are soft when they reach for my face, the mineral water making them wrinkled. 

“I love _you_ , Al.”

I shake my head again. “This is a liminal space, Xander. It isn’t permanent.”

He grimaces and I turn my face from him, unable to watch the steel in his eyes. He calls me bossy, but he’s the most stubborn man that I have ever met. He could make a stone weep simply by staring it down. Sometimes I’m that stone. 

“I had to marry, Alexios. I’m sorry. I would have avoided it if I could.”

“I know,” I say softly. “Is she nice to you, at least?”

He nods slowly. “It’s not as bad as you think, Eagle Bearer. She is, ah…”

Beautiful? Breathtaking? Unmatched? The only Spartan worthy of him, their perfect tactician? With his deep blue eyes and his melting smile?

“ … she’s gay too, Al,” he continues, and I turn to him sharply. “So we have an agreement. Melitta will have a child, and we will present the partnership required of us, but our hearts belong to others.”

I let my breath escape me in shock. “I thought she was one of my uncle’s mistresses?” 

“She was, yes. By her account, he was neither gentle nor accommodating. He was frenzied, bedding women in the hope that at least one would produce an heir. She just happened to be in his line of sight one day. It’s another reason I married her: he can’t touch her while she’s connected to me. No one can.”

“Gods, Xander,” I say, agast. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I wasn’t sure if it was going to go ahead when I saw you last, and then you were so upset I didn’t get a chance to say anything.”

I laugh then. A great, booming laugh that echoes around and around and around the darkening cave. Uproariously. I’m so _stupid_. 

It’s been years and years of meetings and a white hot love forged in the smoke of secrecy. How could I possibly have doubted him?

I doubted him and it turns out he was doing something _honourable_.

I reach for him then, pulling his shoulders towards me and sliding my hands along his wet skin. I slip as I overextend myself, falling into the bed of reeds and pulling him down too. The world turns silent as my head submerges, but my eyes are open and only on his as I pull him under the water. Breathing, the bubbles escaping, running along his hair and into the air above him. He’s beautiful in this light, the twilight of day and the softening of water.

I pull his submerged face towards me, kissing him with chaste lips and a hard line. Almost aggressively, my relief channelled into the touch and feel of him. It lifts a burden I didn’t know I’d been carrying. The thrill of surety. 

I picks me up and out of the water, frenzied in his touch of me. I kiss his shoulders, his neck, his collarbone, the tips of his fingers. All of him.

“I missed you so much,” he moans as my tongue gently licks his ear, one of the spots I know makes him tremble. He places his hand on my stomach, then down further until he successfully provokes me. 

“I love you,” I whisper between kisses. I love you. I love you. I love you. 

He pulls me out of the water and towards where he’d found me sleeping. His cloak is already laid out, welcome compared to the prickles of the grass. It’s almost full dark now. He’ll be missed by his camp.

“You have to go soon,” I whisper, staring up into the winking stars. 

“No, not yet.”

“Night has fallen, Xander.”

“Night falls when I say it does.”

His words are muffled against my skin as he pushes me down onto the makeshift bed. I let him do as he likes, taking the lead away from me. Perhaps I would have made a poor King with him as my primary strategos. One, I’d never get anything done and two, he’d just dominate me completely and I would submit to his every whim. A weak King in the pocket of a helot. 

I groan as he moves down, his mouth working too well. He’s known my pleasures since Amphipolis, when I’d first kissed him. He’d spat at the ground afterwards, surprised, but then he laid me out and learnt what made my body sing. 

And I sang now. I couldn’t stop moving for his caressing, my breath shallow and my eyes scrunched closed. 

“Tell me that you love me,” he says, pushing his finger into me. I can only gasp, but he knows this. 

“I said,” he whispers, mouth back up at my ear, tickling. “Tell me that you love me.”

He works lower now, in the spot that makes my eyes see only black with blue stars. If I was concerned that any surrounding mercenaries would hear me when I called out in fear, I have absolutely no misgivings for them to hear me call out in pleasure. 

“I love you,” I whisper as he pushes his second finger in. He always comes prepared. I wasn’t presumptuous enough to bring oil, but he thinks of everything. 

“Again,” he says as I run my hands over his muscled back. 

I can’t. I can’t say a word. 

The final moan escapes me as I pull his body towards me, bracing myself for the tumult that releases. 

He’s whispering to me, his own pledges. His own promises. His own vows. I don’t need to hear them. I know them all already. 

A light kiss of my forehead greets me when he releases me back down to the cloak, sprawled on my back. Sleepy, now, but so happy that I could burst. 

“Turn over,” he whispers, and I oblige him. He gives so much of himself to everything he does and all the rest of us can do is let him. You don’t question the light as it shines in the night sky.

“Night has fallen, Xander,” I whisper as I push myself up on my knees. He takes me gently, completely. The oils slicks down my back, preventing his grip of me. 

“Night falls when I say it does,” he growls, easing himself in and out. Tempered, languishing in his need. 

“Faster,” I whisper, breath caught in the feel of him. 

For once, he does as I say, reaching around and grasping me as he moves. My mouth opens involuntarily, my eyes shut to the darkness that surrounds us.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” I moan, incapable of thought. He stretches his body up, making himself go faster still until I feel the goosebumps erupt in the only indication of his ecstacy. He pumps, slower and slower, jarring each movement almost like a jagged edge, until he finishes and slumps next to me. I follow, pushing my head into the soft skin of his shoulder, the only part soft enough to sleep on. 

“I’m yours forever, Al,” he says, breathing hard. “No matter what happens, always remember that.”

I nod. I don’t have to reply: he knows how I feel. 

I doze with him then, uncovered and completely exposed, by the pools of Makedonia. 

\--------

“Agiad, it’s time to wake up…” he croons, gently tracing the length of my jaw bone. 

“No,” I say defiantly, clutching to him. 

He laughs softly, in his throat. “It’s morning, Alexios. We slept all night.”

I open my eyes suddenly then, alert. Sure enough, the sky is a clear pink colour and the birds are singing.

He soothes me with a hand to my forehead, rubbing away the lines. He’d covered us in my cloak, the rough grey wool contrasting markedly to the red softness. 

“But I do have to go,” he says, sitting. 

I nod. I knew it would only be short. 

War was coming again. The Peace never truly was, with us agitating Athens as they agitated us. But Lysander was the commander now, promoted to strategos. Brasidas’ old position. 

He places his chiton over his head, grinning at me like a monkey. It’s his nervousness. Whenever he’s unsure, he grins like nothing could ever affect him. I know better.

I rise, picking up his belt, and walk towards him. 

“War means travel,” I whisper.

“Makedonia is disputed territory,” he replies. “But I can’t promise anything, Al.”

“Can you promise me one thing?” I say, ignoring his declaration. He can’t promise visits, but war could kill him. 

“Yes,” he says. 

“You’re married now.”

“I am.”

“Your wife would get notification if you died.”

I almost choke on the words, but follow through with them. He could die: Brasidas did, after all. Even if it was a ruse, commanders die on the field. 

“She would,” he confirms, swallowing himself. Then he touches my jawline, feeling the stubble that grows there. Gently, like a cloud, his lips graze my skin.

A promise. A guarantee.

“Tell her to write me, please, if it happens. So I’m not left without knowing.”

He nods slowly, knowing the danger. He could use the pseudonym. He could direct it through his trusted channels, but it might not be enough. Sparta might see through it. But, still, he nods. 

“I have a present for you, a good luck charm.”

He nods again as I stoop and reach for my rucksack. Feeling beyond the medical supplies, the coin, the cloth, and the repair kit for my armour, I touch the cool of the cedar wood arrow. 

“I don’t shoot, and I know that you don’t either. But Eros shot me in Messenia, when my eyes were only on you. I know you hated me, but I loved you, even then. When we hunted the game, I knew that I loved you.”

“Al…”

“No, just wait. This is just an arrow, but I promise that no matter where I am in the world, and no matter where you are, it will point to me. No matter the distance, this arrow will find me. In Hades, this arrow will find me.”

He takes it, feeling the shaft in his fingertips. Then he brings the arrowhead to his lips, kissing the cool of the obsidian. 

“I’ll carry it with me, always,” he says, eyes bereft of their usual fire. 

I smile, unable to feel much except the enveloping love that follows him around. 

And with a simple touch to my forehead, once again removing the lines of worry that live there, he walks away, pack in hand and war on his mind. 

And I turn too, walking the other way, out of the cave and back to my sister and her family.

**Author's Note:**

> Like my work? Donate to the NSW/ACT Aboriginal Legal Service!  
> https://www.alsnswact.org.au/donate


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